Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 142 - Hundred And Forty Two

The moon hung high over London, a silver coin in a sky of black velvet. The city was asleep. The street lamps flickered dimly in the fog, and the only sounds were the distant bark of a dog or the rattle of a passing carriage.

But inside the Hamilton mansion, Ines was wide awake.

She lay in her large, soft bed, staring up at the canopy of embroidered silk. Her body was tired. Her limbs felt heavy, like they were made of lead. But her mind was spinning. It was running in circles, faster and faster, refusing to let her rest.

She turned onto her side. She punched her pillow, trying to make it comfortable. It didn’t help.

She sat up with a frustrated sigh. She pushed the heavy blankets away and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold under her bare feet, but the chill felt good. It grounded her.

Ines walked over to her writing desk. A single candle burned there, its flame dancing in the slight draft from the window. Beside the candle lay a piece of paper. It was creased and worn, as if it had been folded and unfolded a dozen times.

It was the letter from her brother, Rowan.

Ines picked it up. She didn’t need to read it again to know what it said. The words were burned into her memory.

I’ll be back next week. Everything has been taken care of. I wouldn’t want to miss the masquerade ball coming up. The Queen is going to be in attendance.

Ines traced the word "The masquerade ball" with her fingertip.

The masquerade ball was the biggest social event of the season. Why didn’t she think of it earlier? If Priscilla wants to finish her completely, she would do it where everyone in London will be gathered.

It changed everything. Before, Priscilla’s threat was about social ruin. It was about gossip and scandal. It was about being whispered about behind fans at tea parties. And the Queen...

If the Queen was there...

If Priscilla exposed Ines in front of Her Majesty, it wouldn’t just be a scandal. It would be an insult to the Crown. The Queen did not tolerate impropriety. If she found out that a future Duchess was writing erotic novels under a false name, the punishment would be severe. Ines could be ostracized. The Hamilton family could lose their standing. Carcel could be dragged down with her.

"Rowan is coming back soon," Ines whispered to herself in the quiet room.

She looked at her brother’s handwriting. It was bold and messy, just like him. Rowan was loud. He was strong. He was the head of their house. When he was home, Ines usually felt safe. He was like a big, sturdy wall that kept the world out.

But this time, his return frightened her.

If Rowan came back and found his little sister in the middle of a war with a blackmailer, he would not handle it quietly. He would make things worse and she doesn’t want to see the look of disappointment on his face.

"I’ve sent him a reply though," she murmured, tapping the paper against her chin. "I told him everything is fine. I lied to him."

She felt a heavy stone of guilt settle in her stomach. She hated lying to Rowan. But she had to. She had to protect him, just as she had to protect Carcel.

"I still hope he’s fine," she added softly.

She placed the letter back on the desk. She couldn’t look at it anymore. It made her chest feel tight.

She needed to do something. She needed to distract herself.

Ines opened the bottom drawer of her desk. She reached past the ribbons and the stationary until her hand touched a stack of papers hidden at the back.

It was a manuscript.

It was not the "Decoy" manuscript. It wasn’t the fake diary filled with lies about Priscilla.

This was the real work. This was the next book by Arthur Pendleton.

Ines pulled it out and set it on the desk. She sat down, pulling her chair close. She dipped her quill into the inkwell. The familiar smell of the ink calmed her instantly.

She turned to the last Chapter she had written. It was a scene where the hero and heroine were trapped in a library during a storm.

She began to read.

He looked at her, his eyes dark with a passion he could no longer suppress. The thunder crashed outside, shaking the very foundations of the house, but she did not fear the storm. She only feared the storm in his heart.

Ines frowned. She scratched out the word "house" and wrote "manor." It sounded better. More grand.

She continued to read. She lost herself in the story for a few minutes. She started editing a sentence about the heroine’s dress when she heard it.

Tap. Tap.

It was a soft sound. A rhythmic clicking against glass.

Ines froze. Her hand jerked, sending a splatter of black ink across the page.

She stopped breathing. She listened.

The house was old. It creaked and groaned in the wind. Maybe it was just a branch hitting the window. Maybe it was the wind rattling the frame.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

No. It was deliberate. It was insistent.

Ines slowly put the quill down. She stood up. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the silence.

She looked at the balcony doors. They were covered by heavy velvet curtains. She couldn’t see outside.

Who would be on her balcony at this hour?

A terrified thought flashed through her mind.

Priscilla.

Did Priscilla send someone? Did she come to hurt her? Or perhaps she sent someone to do the hurting, just to prove she could.

Ines looked around for a weapon. She grabbed a heavy silver letter opener from her desk. It wasn’t much, but it was sharp.

She took a step toward the balcony. The floorboards creaked under her feet.

"Who is there?" she called out. Her voice was trembling, barely a whisper.

There was no answer. Just the tapping again. Louder this time. More urgent.

Ines swallowed hard. She gathered every ounce of courage she had. She walked to the doors. Her hand shook as she reached for the curtain. She gripped the velvet fabric.

One, two, three.

She ripped the curtain back.

Moonlight flooded into the room.

Standing on the other side of the glass was a figure.

It was a man. He was tall, his broad shoulders blocking out the view of the garden below. He was leaning against the doorframe as if he could barely stand.

Ines gasped. She dropped the letter opener. It clattered to the floor with a loud ring.

She fumbled with the latch. Her fingers were clumsy with shock. She finally managed to slide the lock open and threw the door wide.

The cold night air rushed in, smelling of rain and mud.

The man stumbled forward, stepping into the light of her candle.

Ines took a step back, her hands flying to her mouth to stifle a scream.

It was Carcel.

But this Carcel looked like he had been to hell and back.

He was missing his heavy riding coat. He was just in his white shirt and waistcoat. The fine white linen of his shirt was ruined. It was stained with mud and dark smears of what looked like oil. One of his sleeves was torn at the shoulder, revealing skin that looked scraped and red.

His hair, usually so neat, was wild. It stuck up in tufts, wet with the fog. There was a smudge of dirt on his cheekbone, stark against his pale skin.

But it was his hands that made Ines’s stomach turn.

His knuckles were raw. They were bruised a deep, angry purple, and there was dried blood on them.

He was breathing hard. His chest heaved up and down with every breath, as if he had run all the way from the other side of London. He looked rough. He looked like a beast that had been let out of its cage.

But his eyes... his eyes were looking at her with such intense relief that it made her knees weak.

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at her.

Ines stood there, her heart pounding. She looked at the mud on his boots. She looked at the blood on his hands. She realized that while she had been sitting in her warm room, worrying about a letter, he had been out in the dark, fighting.

She took a step toward him. She reached out a shaking hand, wanting to touch him, but afraid she might hurt him.

"Carcel?"